Friday, February 15, 2013

This Shabbos I'm speaking at a Shabbaton; you can find the flyer here. The theme of the Shabbos morning derashah is "A Judaism of Fire". The writing is not terribly complex or deep; it's not that kind of occasion. Still, I think it may resonate with some readers, so here it is:

Every time
I visit this shul I take note of the beautiful drawings of the new building
you're raising, and that reminds me of the old story of a visitor to Israel who
attends a concert in the brand new Soloveitchik Hall.

The visitor
admires the remarkable acoustics, the magnificent architectural detail, the
fine furnishings. He asks one of the ushers, "Is this hall named for
Joseph Soloveitchik, the great rabbi?" The usher responds, "No, it's
named for Harold Soloveitchik, the writer."

The visitor
thinks for a moment, but the name is unfamiliar. He asks, "What did he
write?"

To which
the usher responds, "A check."

This
morning we read about the construction of the first magnificent synagogue, the
Mishkan, the portable Temple in which the Jews connected with Gd during their
39-year journey from Mount Sinai into Israel, and then for another 440 years in
the land of Israel itself. The construction was a remarkable feat, product of a
collaboration of men and women who were expert in crafts ranging from weaving
to leatherwork to woodwork to metalwork. The first director of the project was
none other than Moshe Rabbeinu, our master Moses, who brought us the Divine
command, "They shall build for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among
them."

This
morning's parshah, and the one we read next week, include more than 200 verses
of instructions for creating the mishkan and populating it with ritual furnishings.
But Gd did more than tell Moshe, "Build this," "Makethat."

The Talmud[1]
notes that Gd told Moshe, "This is the form of the menorah."
The sages suggest that Moshe at first experienced difficulty understanding
the Divine instructions regarding the menorah he was to build, until Gd
showed him a menorah of fire. "This is what you shall make."

More: A verse in our Torah portion[2]
says that Gd showed Moshe the Mishkan's vessels at Mount Sinai. According
to the Talmud,[3]
Gd displayed to Moshe fiery images of the Ark that would hold the two tablets,
the Table on which special bread would be placed, and the aforementioned menorah.

In addition
to presenting verbal instructions, Gd showed Moshe images of everything he was
to create, and here we learn a pedagogic lesson that extends beyond the
instructions for a building: Don't just tell them, show them. Demonstrate it.

As our
topic this morning is how we raise Jewish children, one lesson here is that we
need to do more than tell our community's children about our ideals; we need to
live these ideals, visibly. I know this is likely obvious, but I state
it as a first important step for parents, and for all of us, as adults; we are
role models by dint of our simple presence.

Last night
we highlighted the problems of a Jewish generation some 2700 years ago, a
generation that lacked a clear vision of Judaism. Looking for a vision which
would not be too narrow or divisive, I proposed a broad, ground-level ideology
of "Just Jewish". The idea is simple enough to transmit – but the
education Gd gave to Moshe reminds us that if our children are to adopt this or
any other ideology, they need more than just to hear about it; they need to see
it lived in front of them, in our daily actions.

But that's just
Step One; for Step Two, I refer you to the words of the playwright Franz Kafka,
in a letter he dedicated to his father:[5]

"Four days a
year you went to the synagogue, where you were, to say the least, closer to the
indifferent than to those who took it seriously, patiently went through the
prayers as a formality, sometimes amazed me by being able to show me in the
prayer book the passage that was being said at the moment, and for the rest, so
long as I was present in the synagogue (and this was the main thing) I was
allowed to hang around wherever I liked. And so I yawned and dozed through the
many hours (I don't think I was ever again so bored, except later at dancing
lessons) and did my best to enjoy the few little bits of variety … How one
could do anything better with that material than get rid of it as fast as
possible, I could not understand; precisely the getting rid of it seemed to me
to be the devoutest action."

I want to come back
to Kafka's scathing words in a few minutes, but first I'd like to read you
another passage. This is a text from the more famous Soloveitchik – not Harold
– describing how he learned about Judaism. In a eulogy [for his son-in-law's
mother], Rabbi Soloveitchik said of his own mother,

"I used to watch her arranging the house in honor of a
holiday. I used to see her recite prayers; I used to watch her recite the Torah portion every Friday night and I still remember the nostalgic tune. I learned from her very much. Most of all I
learned that Judaism expresses itself not only in formal compliance with the law but also
in a living experience. She taught me that there
is a flavor, a scent and warmth to mitzvot. I learned
from her the most important thing in life - to feel the
presence of the Almighty and the gentle pressure of His hand resting
upon my frail shoulders. Without her teachings, which quite often were
transmitted to me in silence, I would have grown up a
soulless being, dry and insensitive.[6]"

Let us be
clear: The central difference between Franz Kafka's experience and that of
Rabbi Soloveitchik is not about level of observance, it's not about
"formal compliance with the law". It's not about Kafka attending
synagogue four days each year, and Rabbi Soloveitchik's mother praying daily.
Rather, the point is inspiration! Visiting the synagogue just four days each
year can be inspiring, and living a halachic lifestyle can be dull and dry.
But Kafka's father was indifferent, and Rabbi Soloveitchik's mother conveyed a
Judaism that had a flavor, a scent, a warmth – a heartfelt inspiration.

This
message is displayed in the way Gd showed Moshe how to construct the
Mishkan. He did not simply show Moshe a diagram of an Ark, a model of a
Menorah. It was של אש, it was of
fire! Indeed, the Torah describes Judaism as אשדת,
a religion of fire![7] Our
Judaism must crackle with energy, radiating heat, shining with brilliant
light, this is an entity we wish to create, to perpetuate, to convey from
generation to generation!

Of course, this presupposes that the adult feels that fire. We
can't fake it; kids will detect that in less than the time it took me to state this sentence. So what does a parent
do if he doesn't feel the flavor, the scent, the warmth? If shul is as dull for
him as it was for Kafka's father, if cooking a Shabbos meal is boring, if she
feels a duty to pass along Judaism to her children but opening up a chumash
makes her feel like she's back in the worst part of her Hebrew school
experience, how can she achieve inspiration? Where will the fire come from?

Some suggest that we store up
our strongest emotions from various experiences, and call them to mind when we
need to be moved.[8] Others
suggest that we meditate. Others suggest that we look at the world with wide,
reverent eyes, and recognize the beauty of Gd's Creation. All of these are
valuable recommendations.

Personally, though, my favorite route is the advice of Rabbi
Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, the last head of the Volozhin yeshiva. In his commentary
to the Torah,[9] Rabbi
Berlin wrote, "Gardens have many kinds of seeds. Still, each garden has
one central variety, and small quantities of other varieties are planted around
it. So, too, each Jew is filled with the mitzvot of Gd, but each has one special
mitzvah in which he is extra careful."

In other words: The Torah has many, many mitzvos – 613, and
then some! There are mitzvos of prayer. There are mitzvos of generosity. There
are mitzvos of study. There are mitzvos of ritual. There are mitzvos of
gardening and mitzvos of construction and mitzvos of calligraphy and mitzvos of
medicine and mitzvos of creativity and mitzvos of music. There are mitzvos of
sacrifice and asceticism, and there are mitzvos of indulgence and pleasure. There
is mysticism and there is rationalism, there are chasidim and there are
misnagdim, there are farmers and entertainers and social workers and scholars
and writers. Torah presents a landscape of religious activity as broad and
varied as humanity itself, and although we are expected to work toward
achieving the whole of it, different aspects of that landscape will resonate
with different people.

When we find a mitzvah to which our nature responds, which
moves our heart to sing, which brings us fulfillment and a sense of, "Yes,
that's what I wanted to do," then we will be inspired – and that inspiration
can spill over into the rest of our Judaism.

The same applies to helping our community's children find their
own inspiration.

Torah is too broad to expect that a child, unsophisticated
and narrow in his experience, is going to find all of it to be beautiful and
motivating. There are mitzvos that require sitting still and concentrating, a
challenge at any age but certainly in adolescence. Some mitzvos are tough until
one gets to the age when hormones settle down. Understanding certain mitzvos requires
a great deal of contemplation. Appreciating other mitzvos requires life
experience. And some mitzvos, let's face it, will never be appealing within today's
world.

But again, Torah is so big and broad that everyone can find the
spark from which the entire Torah, in its variegated beauty and multifarious
colours, will catch fire. If children see adults living an inspired Judaism,
with what resonates for us; if we offer our children a range of Jewish
opportunities, to help them find what resonates for them and use it as an
anchor; then we will have a much greater chance of succeeding in passing along
our Judaism.

The ideas I have expressed here are not complex, perhaps the
midrash, the Netziv, Kafka and Rav Soloveitchik are unfamiliar, but really,
passing along Judaism is not the exclusive province of scholars of esoteric
text, or deep mystical thought. Exposing our ideals, demonstrating that they
inspire us, displaying the fiery image of the mishkan and its vessels, are activities
each of us can do.

Of course, we have no guarantees. A parent can do everything
by the book, and children will still grow up and become independent and chart
their own paths, and who can guess where that will lead? Many, many fine
parents have lived their ideals with enthusiasm, raising children who then said,
"I'm glad that works for you, but it's not for me."

Nonetheless, when we invest the time to think about and
define our ideals; when we invest the effort to live those ideals; and when we
invest the heart to do it with fiery enthusiasm, then we, like Moshe, will
build a mishkan, and we will see fulfillment of that Divine promise, "ועשו לי מקדש
ושכנתי בתוכם – When you build a sanctuary for Me, I will dwell
in your midst."

Thank you very much, Neil; I appreciate it. The overall message was to seek a label in order to avoid the pitfalls of Achav and his generation, but to keep it broad enough to (1) not be divisive, and (2) avoid locking ourselves into particular activities without thinking them through ourselves.

The solution to a shortage of hislahavus in the community can't rely on calling on us to be role models for the next generation. The role models (assuming we're not foolish enough to think it can be faked) are in overly short supply by the definition of the very problem!

To go beyond expanding on my original cryptic post:

I think there is only one way out of this "Catch 22". We can't rely on having enough adults with souls aflame. But we can rely on having enough adults who are visibly trying to get there. If we cannot encourage parents to show passion more often than it actually exists, we can encourage them to make inspiring programming a regular part of their lives.